


My House

by OneLetteredWonder



Series: Sanders One Shots [14]
Category: Sanders Sides (Web Series)
Genre: Bad Parenting, Human Sides (Sanders Sides), M/M, Originally Posted on Tumblr, Protective Virgil, brotherly creativitwins - Freeform, ghost au, hinted at autistic remus, mentioned but not described
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-01
Updated: 2020-06-01
Packaged: 2021-03-03 01:08:19
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,639
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24486397
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/OneLetteredWonder/pseuds/OneLetteredWonder
Summary: They come with boxes and bags, maybe not as many as they should based off the others that used to try and move in. No one stayed for longer than a week or two. Virgil made very sure of that. A few well placed visions, a couple of cabinets slammed in faces, and maybe a small flood that turned red due to sheer will. Simple things he could do to have them all screaming and crying and asking to be out of the house before they could even pronounce the word “poltergeist”.Perhaps a fitting name, Virgil didn’t care one way or the other, as long as it scared, as long as it got these people out of his home. This time it’s two people, a set, a pair. Twins, Virgil realizes if the similar faces are anything to go by. They shouldn’t be here. Not at all. After the last scare no one, not any one should even think about his home. But here they are, with boxes, and bags, and picking rooms right across the hall from each other.
Relationships: Anxiety | Virgil Sanders & Creativity | Roman Sanders & Dark Creativity | Remus Sanders
Series: Sanders One Shots [14]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1768828
Comments: 13
Kudos: 201





	My House

**Author's Note:**

> Warnings for implied parental abuse of some kind - no description, some anxiety and a meltdown, mentions of a night terror, ghostly activities, slamming doors, mild descriptions of a home break in.

They come with boxes and bags, maybe not as many as they should based off the others that used to try and move in. No one stayed for longer than a week or two. Virgil made very sure of that. A few well placed visions, a couple of cabinets slammed in faces, and maybe a small flood that turned red due to sheer will. Simple things he could do to have them all screaming and crying and asking to be out of the house before they could even pronounce the word “poltergeist”.

Perhaps a fitting name, Virgil didn’t care one way or the other, as long as it scared, as long as it got these people _out_ of _his_ home. This time it’s two people, a set, a pair. Twins, Virgil realizes if the similar faces are anything to go by. They shouldn’t be here. Not at all. After the last scare no one, not _any one_ should even think about his home. But here they are, with boxes, and bags, and picking rooms right across the hall from each other.

With some deep sighs that rattle house, Virgil supposes he can give them a night. A single night, a false sense of security that they probably don’t deserve. Maybe it’s a vindictive glee, but seeing them get settled and happy, just to panic and move again is the only form of entertainment he can find. Which for someone who has been here nearly 66 years, he can’t find the humanity to care much.

So he twists his neck in circles, allowing it to come back to it’s supposed normal angle, and watches the twins for their first night. They say little, but enough, and are tired from their move. They tuck into bed rather early. Virgil floats through the walls and watches them a moment. They both sleep fitfully. Not that it matters.

* * *

Virgil slams another cabinets but it’s not heard over the _obnoxious_ singing of one of the twins. It’s loud. It’s annoying. And the other one _joins in_ _._ How can they stand the noise? Perhaps because they are ones making it. But they pay no attention to Virgil’s musing of the kitchen cabinets. And when one of them finally notices and sees the phenomenon, they simply bang them shut themselves.

They stomp, they scream, they sing. Virgil suffers from the lack of silence. Is this how it feels to be haunted? He wonders. Maybe so. But the twins sing and then sob in each other’s arms. It’s a sudden switch Virgil doesn’t know how to handle.

With a lump in his impossibly long throat, Virgil deigns them another night. Just one more. They can’t stay much longer. Virgil’s headache will never hear the end of it.

* * *

_What_ is _that?_ Is all Virgil can think as the person in the grey cap finally leaves the front door alone. It’s a lock. A new shiny sparkly lock on the front door. It’s gaudy and terrible and Virgil quite frankly wants to tear it from the hinges. He growls and tries to do so, but it’s new, it’s not a part of _his_ house. So his attempts go unrecognized. In return, Virgil throws things from the shelves.

They are picked up with shaky laughing and solemn nods between the twins. Ignored. Virgil can feel himself boiling in anger and somewhere a tap in the house blows and water is spewing from the faucet. One of them, the one in green, rushes to the sight, and for some unholy reason, decides to take a bath. It’s a _sign_ they say to relax. The other puts on a face mask.

Unbelievable.

* * *

He’s screaming. He’s _screaming_. And Virgil has done _nothing._ He was going to. He planned it out. He was going to pull out full tricks as nothing before worked on the two. Windows opening, doors slamming, electronics going off, and terrors that would force them from sleep seeing teeth meant to tear them pieces. But the one who likes red, is screaming, and Virgil has done nothing.

He watches still as the one who favors green barely has to push open the doors between them and tackles their brother to the sheets. They coo and whisper and Virgil falls from his floating position to lean and listen. They are both crying.

Are they not young? Virgil finds himself wondering. Surely they can’t be more than 20, younger even if Virgil had to take a guess. Death had aged him considerably to never remembering a time for himself. But they are young. Too young he knows, to be on their own. Where are their parents?

Virgil thinks he knows where they are, but in a place Virgil can’t reach. He backs away, letting the twins have the time they need. They are always close to one another, doors opened just a crack for each other. 

It’s not the last time it happens either. Virgil witnesses multiple times, one or the other, red or green, will wake up without his doing and soon they are together in the small beds that are old and creak with springs that are of no use anymore. They will hold and whisper and coo and cry. And they will be together.

They are young. Too young. Virgil does not know the feeling any more.

* * *

It stopped.

That damnable squeak in the door has stopped. Virgil investigates immediately. There, the one in green smiles to themselves, putting a few tools back in a black bag. Virgil tests the door himself, opening and closing it. Thank goodness. He was _sick_ of that noise and if he had to hear it for another few years he may have torn his own home down to the bedrock just to be rid of it.

He always fixed the door when living, no one else stayed long enough to do so.

He lets his head turn behind him to see the green one still at the steps, watching. Virgil closes the door. Then opens it. The green _smiles._ Rude. Is what Virgil thinks, and follows as they run down the stairs yelling for their twin about the ghost in the home. Finally is what Virgil thinks, finally getting the recognition he deserves. 

They are not scared. They both come back up the stairs, one pointing at the door, the other waiting patiently. Virgil humors them, opens the door, and closes it. They ask a question. Virgil growls, opens the door, and _slams_ it. They both squeak and run away, but they are laughing, and Virgil is too.

* * *

They flinch when the doorbell rings. They both do. Strange indeed, for they both spend so much time on their electric squares, debating on what to buy, what to get, what to eat. They should expect what they purchase. They both leave the house to work, or so Virgil assumes, to get the money, though they both look very young to be working and be able to afford bills.

Not that it should matter. Virgil keeps the lights on for them more often than not.

But the doorbell rings and Virgil is confused. It works well, has always, even when he lived it worked well. But they flinch and have to take a moment to calm themselves before doing anything else. He is unsure how they have not gotten used to the sound. They are more often louder than the bell.

He’s unsure why, but he see’s someone out the walls, a brown box in hand, coming up to the door. Virgil acts before thinking, knocking on the door himself to the inside. Somehow it works. The one in red bounds down the stairs and looks out the window in time to open the door before the delivery person can ring the bell.

Perhaps foolish, but Virgil breaks the bell for them. Should it ring ever again the sound will be soft, forcing the person on the outside to knock should they ever want to be heard over the endless cacophony of noise the twins create, for it hasn’t stopped since that first day.

* * *

Virgil watches, and watches, and watches. The flowers begin to grow well, and full, and bright. Something his deadthumb would never have been able to create. The flowers sit in an overhang on the windowsill. Blues and purples begin to spring to life so soon it seems.

Virgil had never been able to grow them himself. He watches them grow, keeps careful mind of when they are supposed to be watered. Should someone forget he turns the faucet on, keeps turning it on, until someone takes the small pitcher and waters the plants. It’s the least he can do. 

The one who likes red smiles at the flowers, a soft something that feels deeper, sadder, than it should. He planted them selfishly, and Virgil can’t blame him for that. Maybe he should learn their names eventually. Their voices are always foggy in his mind, but perhaps, they might be worth a try.

* * *

Virgil sucks in a breath and flicks a lamp on. The green one, Remus, relaxes. Even if the light had turned on randomly, the tense rise of their shoulders is now gone.

He paid attention. He saw it in the wide, frantic look in their eyes when Remus got out of bed. It was fear in a pure form and Virgil couldn’t stand it for some reason. So he turned on the light. And Remus thanked him for it. It was a small admittance, but there all the same.

Remus got his water from the kitchen area, and only after he was safe back in his bed with the springs that are useless, did Virgil turn the light in the hallway of the stairs off again.

When he saw the panic flash back in Remus’ eyes, Virgil decided that maybe a nightlight in the hallway wouldn’t be such a bad idea. The twins have no idea where it came from, but that didn’t quite matter to any of them.

* * *

It’s.. familiar. Virgil thinks. The window in the living space is his favorite. It’s wide and allows a lovely breeze into the house when opened. The twins had spent a good part of the day reorganizing the space, and pushed their old couch right up to the side of it, putting it right in the way of the path of the sun.

Virgil rattles something in the house, the shudders to the window mostly, in approval. He used to have a chair of his own there. A rocking chair with plush cushioning. It was, in his opinion, the best place for his chair in the house. Even though he can not sit on the couch proper, he can float on it and enjoy the beams of the sun like he used to.

The twins whisper to themselves and join him though they don’t really know. Roman ask things aloud. It’s foggy through the haze of living versus dead, but Virgil understand well enough, or so he thinks. He shudders the windows again happily and the twins cheer to themselves. They burst into song, and Virgil finds it not as obnoxious as he once thought it was.

* * *

Remus rocks back and forth. Head moving from side to side. Virgil watches. It’s not a new behavior. He’s seen it before. Normally, Roman, would come and see and start turning things off. Lights, electronics, even close blinds. But Roman is not home due to some reason or another. 

But this is Virgil’s house. So he makes it quiet. Cabinets that were open close softly, doors that were creaking shut and make silence. Electronics flip off with no press of a button. The blinds are drawn and the wind outside could not muster the strength to keep the shudders shaking. Not with Virgil holding them tight to keep them that way.

It takes a moment, a few actually, not that Virgil cares for counting them, but Remus stops rocking. He lays flat on the ground with a blanket over him, and breathes deep. He thanks nothing but open air again. Virgil wonders not for the first time, if Remus truly believes there is a ghost in the home. Virgil hasn’t done much to hide himself really, and Remus is not shy in trying to figure out.

Yet Remus thanks the empty house regardless. And Virgil will silence his home as often as he needs to keep Remus from rocking.

* * *

‘Good luck’, they said. ‘Good luck’, is the words Roman used. ‘Good luck’, Remus had agreed. Virgil feels it in the pits of the dead soul of himself. Good luck.

A simple phone call to a cracked phone in Remus’ hand. The twins had listened in together, Virgil unable to make out the words. The call took a long time. Long enough for Virgil to open doors in worry. Then the twins ended the call and dissolved into laughter.

Laughter is a good thing. Vigil smiles and rattles the home in question. But then Roman calls it ‘good luck’, the home, and in turn Virgil in it. It spreads a warmth through Virgil, and he warms the house in turn. The twins are laughing, and holding tight to each other.

‘Good luck’, they said. And Virgil would try to bring them many more of it.

* * *

_No,_ is what Virgil thinks when he spies the recipe they have open. 

They found the cookbook after exploring some of the crevices of the kitchen. Virgil’s cookbook, something he sure had been lost to time itself, got stuck between the fridge and the wall. The adventure to get it out struck both the twins and they spent a good while trying to move the fridge to get it out. Virgil eventually took pity on them and moved it himself.

They tore through the pages, lamenting on the discoloration, and deciding with no little gusto, to make every recipe in the book, starting of course, with the most difficult dish in the whole book. No.

Virgil rolls his eyes and flips the pages himself, very aware the twins are watching with rapt attention. Good. He flips open to a casserole, something with easy steps that the picky eaters they are may not dislike too much. The twins laugh sheepishly to each other, over estimating their skills but not really wanting to admit it.

In the end, it’s not so much a disaster. They eat a decent portion of the food and tuck the rest away for later. Still they peruse the recipes, and make an absent minded promise to make them all for Virgil once more. He can’t eat any of the things in that book anymore, but it’s the thought that counts.

* * *

_Absolutely not,_ is what Virgil thinks when he spies the men with crowbars at his home’s door. 

How _dare_ they think they can just break into _his_ home, _their_ home, and not face the consequences of it. There’s an anger rippling at Virgil’s form, dangerous and vengeful. Not his home. And not the kids inside.

So when the men crack open the gaudy lock, Virgil throws every door, every window wide. Every light flashes and flickers and strobes the men blind. Some break with the force of his fury, but continue to burn. He slams and shudders but doesn’t break. The men turn and run, screaming haunted back at the property.

Roman and Remus come downstairs confused and disoriented. Once they put the pieces together they hold each other on the couch, watching the closed door with a lock that’s fixed without having been touched, the sun comes up and warms them. They sit in the perfect spot to do so.

Virgil’s anger calms but is no less justified. This is _his_ home, _his_ borders, and nothing, _nothing,_ is going to hurt the ones he protects inside.

**Author's Note:**

> :o


End file.
